The Glass Painter's Daughter (13 page)

‘It’s nice for her to see you,’ said the vicar. ‘She misses our girls terribly.’

‘How many do you have?’

‘Two. Fenella’s twenty-five. She works in Manchester now. Engaged to a very nice young man she met up there. And Miranda. She’s at college in Bristol. Well, she should be, but she’s taking a year out. Miranda’s given us a lot of problems, I’m sorry to say.’ He trailed off sadly. ‘It’s been immensely upsetting. But I mustn’t run on. I think you wanted to ask me something.’

‘Yes, I do, though I’m sorry about your daughter.’ I paused and took a breath. ‘Jeremy, how well would you say you know my father?’ I wanted the truth, but at the same time was frightened of it.

He was silent for a moment, folding his glasses and pushing them into his top pocket.

‘I’m glad you asked that, Fran. Before last year we’d met once or twice in a professional capacity. He was interested in the windows. But then he came to see me a year ago to ask my advice as a priest. We met several times to talk. And I feel, yes, that we became friends. We’re the same age, practically, and, as I’ve said, he’s a very interesting man. Has a detailed knowledge of the history of his craft–quite fascinating. Did you know—’

‘Yes, yes,’ I broke in, and he must have caught my desperation, because he suddenly gave me his full attention.

‘You see,’ I went on, ‘my father has always been something of an enigma to me and we’ve grown somewhat…estranged. I cannot truly say I know him.’

‘Which of us can ever truly say we know another?’ Jeremy said quietly.

‘No. But he has hidden a lot from me, especially about my mother. Things I think I have a right to know.’

‘You’re asking me to divulge what he told me in complete confidence,’ he said heavily. ‘I was afraid you might. Well I’m sorry to say that I can’t. You must realise—’

‘I do, I do. But you’ve seen how he is. He may not recover.’

‘Though, God willing, he might,’ said Jeremy with unmistakable feeling. ‘I’m deeply sympathetic, really I am. But the guidelines of my calling are clear on this matter. I would be betraying his trust.’

‘But what about me? Do I need to suffer because of this principle?’

‘Fran, my dear. We are all hoping that your father will be restored to us, and it seems wrong to believe otherwise whilst medical opinion is unclear. What if he gets better, then learns that I have divulged his deepest secrets? It might change his relationship with you for ever–and he would certainly never trust me again. I know this is incredibly difficult for you…’ He sounded genuinely upset.

I was furious when I eventually stumbled out on the street, absolutely furious. I knew Jeremy was right, he couldn’t break his promise of confidentiality, but in this particular situation it all seemed unfair. And how could Dad have confided in Jeremy when he never had in me? What on earth had my father done that he couldn’t tell his only child? Another thought occurred to me and I tasted bitterness. I might only know Dad better after he died. But I didn’t want him to die. And what about the alternative? Maybe he’d stay alive for years and years and I’d be stuck in some limbo with him, intimate with his bodily needs but never getting any closer to him as a person, never learning about my mother. Never coming to terms with who I was.

Zac had locked the door and was totting up the day’s takings when I got back. He let me into the shop, and I must have looked black as thunder, because he gave me a wide berth and went off home shortly afterwards.

I locked all the doors then mounted the stairs. I couldn’t face going to see Dad tonight and felt wicked for my resentment. But a sort of weary numbness was creeping over me. In the end I opened a dusty bottle of Bordeaux I found in a cupboard and curled up in the armchair by the window to weep a little. Then I went to find Laura Brownlow’s journal and began to read once more.

The more materialistic science becomes, the more angels shall I paint. Their wings are my protest in favour of the immortality of the soul.

Sir Edward Burne-Jones

L
AURA’S
S
TORY

April 1880

Mr Russell called on the Brownlows on the Tuesday morning after he met Laura and little Arthur was born. He was told that the Reverend Brownlow was out on urgent business but that Mrs Brownlow and Laura would see him in the morning room. Both ladies were weary after a late night, Mrs Brownlow explaining that they had been with the family of a parishioner who was killed in an accident at the tanning factory the day before.

At Russell’s tentative request, Mrs Brownlow brought out two framed photographs of Caroline from a locked drawer in her writing bureau. One was a portrait from before her illness, the other, unfortunately slightly blurred, had been taken in the garden only weeks before she died. Mr Russell studied them for some minutes and his expression softened.

He said, very gently, ‘In the first she is a child, and in the second–nay, it’s extraordinary–almost a fragile spirit.’ He shook his head as though further words failed him, then passed the photographs back to Mrs Brownlow.

‘My husband asked for you specifically to design the windows, Mr Russell.’ Theodora Brownlow’s eyes were huge in her tired face.

Mr Russell inclined his head in grave acknowledgement. Laura had as yet said little, but glanced at him where he sat, his expressive hands resting on his thighs. He conveyed such a feeling of lightness, she thought, as though his body wasn’t subject to the usual rules of gravity. His back was straight, his head dipped forward, his concentration full upon Mrs Brownlow. When he stroked his cropped beard, reddish-gold against the pale skin, the slight rasping noise caused the back of Laura’s neck to prickle.

Mrs Brownlow sat back in her chair. She looked exhausted, and from the way she frequently touched her temple, Laura guessed one of her headaches was developing. She vowed to coax her mother back to bed as soon as Mr Russell departed, but for the moment, the over-bright expression in Theodora’s eyes told of some deep source of energy tapped, now that she was talking about Caroline.

She went on, ‘Mr Brownlow and I have seen your designs for St Aloysius.’

‘Ah, the Mary windows,’ he said.

‘Yes. We admired them, Mr Russell. Greatly. They, too, were made by
Minster Glass
, I gather.’

‘It was I who made them, in their workshop, Mrs Brownlow. If you’d allow me to explain how I like to work.’

She nodded. ‘Please do.’

‘You see, I believe that craft only reaches the state of true art when the whole artefact is not only designed but fashioned by the same man. I wish to avoid the frustrations of the artist whose inspired vision is thwarted by the inability of mere drudges to put that vision into practice. I often used to feel angry and frustrated when the facial detail or precise colour or the spiritual energy I tried to convey in my drawings was not apparent in the final work. So I set myself to learn the craft and create windows myself.’

‘Indeed,’ said Mrs Brownlow absently.

Laura could see her attention had wandered to the pictures of Caroline in her lap. ‘Then you are like Mr William Morris in this matter,’ she broke in, and felt the warmth of his gaze on her.

‘My wife is distantly related to Mr Morris. I have enjoyed many discussions with him on just this subject,’ he said. ‘I take commissions from his firm from time to time.’

She heard the words ‘my wife’ with surprise, though why she had assumed he was a bachelor she couldn’t say. Something to do with the frayed shirt-cuffs, perhaps.

‘Do you seek no assistance at all in making the windows?’ she asked.

‘I have not the skill to make the glass, of course. But I like to consult regarding the precise colours, to draw up the cartoon myself, cut the glass, paint it and fire the result. Another craftsman will help me assemble the window and install it, but these are ordinary manual tasks, and I still supervise.’

‘Do you have a studio?’

‘Indeed I do, Miss Brownlow. I paint in the attic of my lodgings in Lupus Street, but my labours take me frequently to
Minster Glass
, which has the tools and materials I need.’

‘Your angels,’ said Mrs Brownlow, looking up from her photographs. ‘They are vibrant creatures, not feeble spirits of air. I like to think of Caroline…’ She drew to a halt, as though unable to frame the right words.

‘How do you like to think of Caroline, Mama?’ whispered Laura, leaning forward to touch her mother’s hand.

‘As being somewhere more beautiful than here. Grown into the woman she should have become. Warm and full of life…not as a fleshless spirit.’

There was silence for a moment, then Mr Russell inclined his head and said, ‘I think I can see her in my mind’s eye, ma’am. But do you and your husband wish the angel’s features to be in any way, ah, reminiscent of your daughter? The face in the second photograph, you see, is indistinct, and anyway you might not feel it appropriate…’ he broke off.

Mrs Brownlow’s head was bowed. By a slight shudder of her shoulders Laura was alarmed to see that she was crying. She stood up quickly.

‘My mother is tired after our disturbed night. You will understand, I’m sure…’

Mr Russell rose immediately and said, ‘Of course. I must take my leave for another appointment anyway. Mrs Brownlow–my sympathies for you in your grief. I assure you that this memorial will represent the best of me, for your daughter’s sake.’

And, with a bow and a murmured goodbye, he followed Laura out into the hall, where Polly fortunately appeared straight away with his hat and his coat. He took Laura’s hands in both of his and she lowered her eyes. A button on his coat hung by a thread. Perhaps his wife hadn’t noticed it.

‘Thank you for understanding,’ she said quietly. ‘I think Mama meant also to ask you about the design for the other window. And Papa, I know, wished to meet you.’

‘Please reassure your parents that I shall channel my all into these commissions. As for the
Virgin and Child
, as agreed, I am to see the nephew of the benefactress, Mr Jeffrey—’

‘Jefferies.’

‘Mr Jefferies, indeed–tomorrow afternoon. In the morning I intend to visit the church once more to take further measurements. I wonder, Miss Brownlow, if it would not be an imposition, whether one of your family might be on hand for advice.’

‘I am sure that can be arranged. Father always says morning prayer there at eight but is finished by half-past. Why don’t you come then?’

‘I will perhaps come in time for morning prayer. I should pay more regular attention to matters of the soul.’ His eyes twinkled with humour. ‘Good day, Miss Brownlow.’

With that he was gone. Once Polly vanished downstairs, Laura hurried into the drawing room to peep through the window, but the baker’s cart halting outside robbed her of a last sight of him.

Behold I send an angel before you, to guard you on the way and to bring you to the place which I have prepared.

Exodus
XXIII
. 20.

On Saturday I had been home a whole week, though it seemed much longer. After some discussion, Zac and I decided to offer Amber a part-time job. We definitely needed help. If Zac was out on his travels, I was tied to the shop. This was sometimes lonely, and it meant that I couldn’t get on with anything else, such as dealing with paperwork or visiting Dad. So Jo and I talked on the phone a couple of times over the weekend, and Amber came to see me on the Sunday–and started work with us the very next day. She was to do eighteen hours a week on a temporary basis, with part of that being on-the-job training.

Amber was a shy scrap of a girl, but she had a natural friendliness and sensitivity, and I knew she would charm the customers. From the start, though, I worried about her trusting nature.

‘How do you get on with the other women in the hostel?’ I asked, expecting her to complain about the bullying.

‘They’re all right,’ she answered, shrugging. ‘They’re a laugh really.’ Whether she felt some misplaced loyalty towards them or the situation had improved, I didn’t know, but as she spoke her hand flew to her collarbone where a curiously-shaped pendant rested above the dip of her T-shirt.

‘I like your necklace, Amber. What’s it got on it?’

She showed me. It was a tiny silver angel, its head bowed and its wings folded in a point above its head. ‘Gran gave it to me. I wear it nearly all the time. It keeps me safe.’

Zac was amused and bemused by Amber in equal part. He was flattered by her interest in his work. During a quiet period I watched him teach her how to edge the glass with thin copper foil and to make a simple suncatcher by soldering the pieces together. She chattered away in her excitement. ‘Have I done this right? Is this how you hold the–oh! I’m really sorry! I’ve messed up, haven’t I?’ He made her try again until she got it right, exercising the patience and gentleness that a caring father might show towards a young daughter.

‘You love your job, don’t you?’ I heard her say to him at one point. ‘Your face sort of lights up when you’re doing it.’

I watched Zac carefully after that whenever I passed through the workshop. Amber was right. When he was concentrating on drawing patterns or painting glass, his habitual moroseness was gone.

Late in the morning the post brought an electricity bill with an ominous red
Final Demand
slashed across it, and this was enough to galvanise me into sorting out the finances. It seemed safe enough to leave Amber alone in the shop for a few minutes whilst I scurried upstairs.

Zac’s suggestion had been that I phone Dad’s solicitor, but it had occurred to me to look through Dad’s personal document case first. I dragged it out from under his bed, brushed off the dust and tried the catch. It was locked, but a search in the drawer of his bedside cabinet turned up a small bent key. After jiggling this in the elderly lock for a moment I managed to wrestle the case open.

It was an odd feeling, looking down at the neat row of files inside, the dividers tagged
Building Society, Health, Wills etc, Certificates
and a tantalising
Miscellaneous
at the back. I had a strong suspicion that they might contain valuable clues about Dad, and maybe my mother, and yet Jeremy Quentin’s little speech about integrity the day before must have had an effect on me. I knew it would represent a betrayal of my father to rake over his life while he lay helpless in a hospital bed. I wouldn’t be able to look him in the face if I did that. Another reason for holding back was more primal: simply that I was afraid of what I would find. So I did the decent thing and flipped straight to the papers behind the plastic tag labelled
Wills etc
. And here I found what Zac and I needed.

The file contained a long thin brown envelope and a couple of big white ones. On the brown one was typed
Last Will and Testament of Edward James Morrison
. One of the white ones bore
Pwr of Attorney
scribbled on it in Biro. On the third I read with an odd, prickly feeling
Living Will
.

I put the Will back in the case unopened and read the other two documents quickly. The Power of Attorney gave me the ability to act on Dad’s behalf when he was incapacitated. That was good.

Reading the Living Will left me breathless and indignant for a moment. In it, he’d ticked all the boxes about not being revived when
in extremis
–and named Jeremy Quentin as the person to decide. Jeremy, not me! My resentment ebbed when I remembered that it could be problematic to give a beneficiary of one’s Will power of life and death. And presumably Dad would leave his property to me.

Retaining the two documents, I locked the case, replaced it under the bed and went downstairs to make the necessary phone calls to set the Power of Attorney in motion. The Living Will I would take with me to the hospital that evening.

I spent the afternoon in the shop with Amber, showing her, in between serving customers, all the different types of glass and their prices, some of the tools we sold, kept in cupboards in the shop. She was fascinated by all the different colour effects that could be achieved with the glass, repeating the different makes and types like a mantra.

She was also fascinated by the broken angel window. ‘It’s so sad,’ she whispered, when Zac showed her the pieces laid out on the table pushed out of the way in the corner. ‘Can you really make it again?’

‘We don’t know,’ he said. ‘We desperately need further clues about what it looked like.’

It was nearly five o’clock and I was fetching the keys from the office in order to lock up the shop. When I returned, Amber was still studying the broken angel. I watched her pick up a piece of golden glass and try, unsuccessfully, to match it with another.

‘Come on,’ I told her. ‘It’s time you went now. You’ve done really well today.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, giving me a shy smile. ‘It’s been great.’

‘See you tomorrow,’ said Zac.

‘Have a nice evening,’ she said, as I showed her out of the back door.

‘I hope to,’ I replied, remembering that it was choir practice at six-thirty.

Just time to visit my father briefly first.

When I reached the hospital I was alarmed to find that Dad had a plastic mask over his face. The nurse, who took away the Living Will to photocopy for Dad’s file, told me his breathing had grown shallow and his oxygen levels had dropped, though now they were recovering.

He was awake though and he looked at me fiercely over the mask as I took the seat beside the bed. I told him about Amber and my visit to the vicar’s house, but didn’t allude to the fact that I knew of his conversations with Jeremy Quentin. This time I was reluctant to leave. The feeling stole up on me, more strongly than ever before, that each time I saw him now was precious.

I walked back home in the twilight, feeling curiously sapped of energy. My enthusiasm of earlier had quite gone. I nearly didn’t go to choir after all, but forced myself. I’d only droop around the flat and get miserable and guilty. Anyway, singing always cheers me up. Our Junior Choir teacher always used to say that, and many times I have proved her right.

Once I got there, a little late, I was glad I went. This time Ben fast-forwarded to the Devils’ Chorus–in which demons, assembling at the judgement court ‘hungry and wild to claim their property’, mock the newly dead soul. When sung properly, it is chilling, but tonight many of the basses were sight-reading and the rest of the choir subsided into helpless laughter every time the men attempted their deep jeering ‘Ha-has’.

‘You sound more like dismal Father Christmases than devils,’ Ben exploded at one point. ‘Put some welly into it, for goodness sake.’

There was a tone of genuine exasperation in his voice, and I overheard someone near me whisper, ‘He’s taking it a bit seriously, isn’t he?’

Jo coaxed me into going to the pub later, and it turned out to be the right decision, for everyone seemed determined to enjoy themselves after such a hard rehearsal. I found myself laughing at some of Dominic’s anecdotes till the tears ran down my cheeks.

He was in the Home Office and, without actually divulging anything that could get him into trouble, he had some marvellous stories of personal encounters with well-known politicians and of bureaucratic incompetence. I couldn’t help noticing how often he looked at Jo. She would smile back at him, but otherwise just didn’t seem to notice.

Ben lounged in his usual place at the bar, nursing a pint and talking to one of the tenors, a tall lean man in a sharply tailored dark suit. He was about Ben’s age, with cropped, prematurely silvering black hair and a clever, mobile face.

‘Have you met Michael?’ asked Ben, after I’d bought my round of drinks at the bar and passed them to Dominic.

‘No. Hello,’ I said, and we shook hands.

‘Michael’s on the choir committee,’ Ben said. ‘He’s yet another civil servant in real life, I’m afraid.’

‘Can’t get away from us here in Westminster,’ added Michael. He had an urbane air, but I thought it masked a sensitive nature, for there was a tautness about his mouth.

‘Foreign Office, can’t you guess,’ Ben drawled. ‘Doesn’t he look the type? Actually, Michael went to school with me. Knows all my deepest secrets. Where the bodies are buried, eh, Michael?’ They were sparring with one another in a way that left me feeling uncomfortable. There was something deeper, darker, going on beneath the banter.

‘I used to spend school holidays at his parents’ place,’ Michael explained. ‘Mine were abroad, you see, and Ben’s wonderful mother took pity on me. So we all got to know each other quite well. His folks had this marvellous great pile in Herefordshire. Antiques and statues everywhere. I always felt like Charles Ryder visiting Brideshead.’ There was a sneer in his voice.

Ben burst out laughing. ‘He makes it sound much grander than it really was,’ he told me. ‘And sadly, my parents had to sell it in the end. Cashflow was always the problem. My grandfather had to stump up the school fees.’

I didn’t immediately warm to Michael. He was friendly enough, but he was very bitter about something and I didn’t understand why he was trying to make Ben sound like a spoiled rich kid. It seemed bad manners, especially if Michael had benefited from Ben’s family’s hospitality. I wondered what the real story was behind it all.

‘It’s good to meet you, but I ought to get back to Jo,’ I said politely, and left the men to themselves again.

By half-past ten, I was weary and said my goodbyes, promising Jo I’d meet her for a drink on Wednesday. I was faintly surprised when Ben left with me. Michael was nowhere to be seen.

‘Did he join the choir because of you?’ I asked, as we sauntered back towards Greycoat Square.

‘He was already a member. Actually, when the previous organist resigned, it was Michael who suggested my name for the job,’ said Ben.

That seemed strange to me. If Michael was envious of Ben, why would he go out of his way to see so much of him? But I didn’t know Ben well enough to ask him that. And Ben changed the subject then anyway.

‘How did you think the rehearsal went?’

‘Fine,’ I said, not liking to offer my honest opinion. ‘Early days still, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so,’ he growled. ‘But we didn’t cover everything I wanted to this evening. Second rehearsal and we’re already behind schedule.’

‘I expect we’ll catch up,’ I said soothingly.

As we parted, at the gate of Greycoat Square gardens, Ben said, ‘Look, I wonder if you’re free on Friday. I’ve been given tickets for a concert at St John’s Smith Square. Do you like Berlioz? It’s his Symphonie Fantastique. There’s a Rossini Overture,
La gazza ladra
, I think. And some Mozart.’

‘I do like Berlioz, very much. And Rossini’s
Thieving Magpie
,’ I said, though I’m sure I’d have said yes even if I hadn’t. ‘I’d love to come.’

‘Great. It starts at seven-thirty. I have a church choir rehearsal first but that’s usually over by seven. Why don’t you come along to the church, and we’ll go on together?’

As I made myself ready for bed, I reflected on the invitation. It seemed a good sign that I’d hardly thought about Nick for the past week, but a little voice warned me to be careful, not just drift into some new relationship. Still, I was looking forward to going to a concert. How quickly I was sliding into this new London life, I thought as I plumped up the pillows and picked up Laura’s journal. Yet, beneath the surface, I was aware, my fear and uncertainty about the future still swirled.